


light and shadow (you and i)

by Damkianna



Category: A Yank at Oxford (1938)
Genre: 5 Times, Angry Sex, Communication Failure, Consent Issues, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Extra Treat, Hate Sex, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: It was going to happen, Lee decided. Some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. That would sort them out. That had to be it, the thing Lee wanted and hadn't gotten. That had to be the reason for the hot aching dissatisfied feeling that filled him up every time he thought about Beaumont.He'd give Beaumont a nice solid sock in the jaw, and that would make it stop. He was sure of it.(Or: five times Lee and Paul "resented" each other too much to bear, plus the time it definitely wasn't resentment anymore.)
Relationships: Paul Beaumont/Lee Sheridan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 46
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	light and shadow (you and i)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melmillo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melmillo/gifts).



> You had so many great suggestions for possible "rivalry getting ~physical" scenarios that I couldn't pick just one, melmillo! So I hope you like this stack of them instead, and happy Yuletide. :D ♥

**(zero.)**

Lee got close, early on. Not quite there, but close.

It was at the track tryouts. He was still irritated, lingeringly, a low slow simmer, over the trick Beaumont and his friends had tried to pull on him at the very start of term. To have it treated like nothing much, when they told him to come to the track, set that simmer going a little hotter.

And the fate of his bicycle, that he was late and had come still in his robes, wasn't Beaumont's fault.

It just felt like it was. It felt like everything difficult and frustrating that happened to Lee had to have Beaumont at the heart of it somewhere.

And for a moment, right then, looking at Beaumont's stiff disapproving face, Lee got close.

He wanted with sudden fierceness to just— _settle_ it, right then and there. To have a go at Beaumont, a real one. To get in there and lay hands on Beaumont, get a grip on him, leave some kind of mark; give him the thrashing he so richly deserved. To push him around and shove him down, to _make_ him concede Lee had the better of him in a way that was inarguable, physical.

But in front of the whole track team—no, he told himself, better not. They'd just come in on Beaumont's side, if they saw Lee jump him that way, and they'd stop it, and nothing would get settled at all.

So he got a hold of himself, and he didn't do it.

He still wanted to, though, and the itch of it wouldn't leave him be.

Doing so well in tryouts was—was _almost_ enough. Proving himself: inarguable, physical. And yet it wasn't enough at all, not even close; because Beaumont wasn't in that race. Lee hadn't beaten him at anything. He was just standing there, watching, probably too busy disdaining Lee for making a spectacle out of his precious freshman tryouts to even notice that Lee had come in first.

It was going to happen, Lee decided. Some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. That would sort them out. That had to be it, the thing Lee wanted and hadn't gotten. That had to be the reason for the hot aching dissatisfied feeling that filled him up every time he thought about Beaumont.

He'd give Beaumont a nice solid sock in the jaw, and that would make it stop. He was sure of it.

**one.**

Then he got debagged.

He didn't know what was happening, or why—nothing Scatters said made any sense to him at all, hardly. He just knew Beaumont was in the middle of it, again. Wanted to make a fool of Lee, again, and had gotten the whole college to go along with it and help him do it, again.

Even after they'd let him go, dispersed, and Scatters had given him a fresh pair of pants, it wasn't over. How could it be? He couldn't fall asleep, could hardly even stand to think about it. He paced around in his room in the dark, restless, incensed. He couldn't abide it. How could Scatters expect him to abide it? He couldn't just—let himself be humiliated like that. He couldn't just let _Beaumont_ humiliate him like that.

He felt hot and helpless all over again, remembering it. The hands at his waist, the tugs at his belt; the way they'd stripped him, the way he couldn't stop them, and knowing that somewhere among them was Beaumont—

He sucked in a sharp breath, and crossed the room to fling a window open. The night air was cool, refreshing, and his head felt cleared a little by it. He breathed it in, deeper, slower, and leaned on the sill with his elbows.

He looked up at the sky, the stars. He looked out at Oxford, dark and sleepy, lit here and there by the bright pinpricks of streetlamps.

And then he looked down the side of the hall, and that was when he worked it out.

He didn't try anything right then.

He wanted to get a look at the wall in the light, that was all. He wanted to be sure that he was right, that one of those windows really was Beaumont's.

But the thought was in him, after that, and he couldn't shake it. And by the time he was ready to give it a go, he was so worked up about it that he could hardly stand it.

He had to wait for the right night. Had to listen close, had to be sure Beaumont was in there—hadn't gone out for the evening, but wasn't entertaining company, either. He had to make sure Beaumont was in his room, alone.

And then he opened his window, and hauled himself up onto the sill, and started climbing.

He took it slow, because it was the first time he'd done it and he meant to do it right; because the last thing he wanted was to fall, and have Wavertree find him sprawled on the sward in the morning.

He'd thought he might need to prise Beaumont's window open. But he was lucky: Beaumont had left it cracked, probably wanting a little fresh air while he studied. Beaumont had left it cracked, and all Lee had to do was draw it open the rest of the way and lower himself in.

No lights, but Lee didn't need any to pick Beaumont's figure out of the dark. He was right there, only just unbuttoning his shirt, about to roll into bed—his head came up at the motion in the window, at the sound of Lee's shoe on the sill. He said sharply, "Sheridan, what in the world do you think you're—"

Lee didn't let him finish. He reached up and struck Beaumont in the shoulders, so that Beaumont fell back a half-step and hit the wall. There was a certain way Beaumont had looked at him, the night of the debagging; that same cold bright anger flashed in Beaumont's eyes now, and Lee was fiercely glad to see it there—to think he'd have the chance to wipe it off Beaumont's face for good.

They fought like that, for a second, silent and furious. Lee went to pin Beaumont there against the wall, and Beaumont didn't care to be pinned. He knocked Lee's hands away and shoved Lee back with his forearm, his elbow. Lee swung at him, and he ducked clear of it and then caught Lee's wrist tight, bruising; and he meant to hold Lee off with the other hand, but Lee caught _his_ wrist and pushed in close so he couldn't, and together they stumbled and came up against the wall anyway.

And Lee wanted to hit him. But it occurred to him, somewhere beyond the rush of mean satisfaction, the hot throb in his wrist where Beaumont was gripping it, that that wouldn't make them even. How could it? Beaumont hadn't hit him, not even once. Being socked wasn't what Lee was sore about.

"Sheridan," Beaumont snapped.

And Lee looked at him there, his hard eyes and the arrogant angle of his chin, the sneer twisting the corner of his mouth, and knew exactly what he had to do.

He turned his wrist sharply, jerked it out of Beaumont's grasp, and grappled for Beaumont's waist—for the fastening of his slacks. Because Beaumont hadn't taken them off; would have gotten to them next, after his shirt, if Lee hadn't interrupted him.

And Lee didn't need the whole college behind him, not like Beaumont. He'd debag Beaumont, all right, and he'd do it himself, and then Beaumont would know better than to pull something like that again.

Beaumont tensed against him, and swore, and shoved at him. Lee pulled at his arm, crossed it over so he could get _both_ Beaumont's wrists in one hand, except of course Beaumont wasn't about to make it easy for him. Beaumont swore at him some more, pushed off the wall so that Lee had to catch him and shove him back against it again, and kneed Lee in the thigh. But Lee kept on through it all, dogged.

And then something tore a little, and suddenly he had the slack he needed. He yanked, and Beaumont jerked, and Beaumont's trousers slid down his hips, halfway down his thighs. There, Lee thought, and in the grip of that hot sparking satisfaction, all he wanted was more. He pushed his hand further, blindly, and heard Beaumont's breath catch, and the—the back of his hand was—

He went still. Beaumont did, too, against him.

Lee stared at the wall just to one side of Beaumont's head, and swallowed hard. And then he pressed in the barest fraction with the back of his hand, against Beaumont's—against Beaumont.

Beaumont didn't move.

"All right," he said, icy and steady and terribly soft, practically right into Lee's ear. "All right. You've made your point, Sheridan."

And he might have been right. Lee might have listened to him, and backed off, and left him there.

Except Lee started to ease away a little, and met Beaumont's eyes: hard and dark, unreadable as ever. And Beaumont added, just as steadily, "That's enough."

But it wasn't. It wasn't enough, Lee thought. It couldn't be, when Beaumont sounded exactly the same as he had a minute ago—when he could still look at Lee that way, as if Lee hadn't touched him at all, or at least not anywhere that counted.

So Lee stopped, and regrouped. Crowded Beaumont in all the closer against the wall, and leaned in all the nearer, and said, "I don't know, Beaumont, I'm not sure it is."

Beaumont's eyes widened a little.

And then Lee turned his hand where it was trapped between them. Turned it, and rubbed the heel of it along what he found there.

And Beaumont's hips shifted hard against him, and Beaumont caught a sound between his teeth and swallowed it back down where it had come from, but that couldn't stop Lee from hearing it.

 _That_ was what Lee wanted from him. That would really be getting the better of him: to make him lose all that cool composure, a bit at a time. To make him like this, when he didn't want to like it; to make him desperate for it, when he didn't want to be.

Lee didn't know what he was doing, not really. He didn't look down at his hand. He looked at Beaumont, and rubbed harder. And Beaumont was looking right back at him, wound up tight, trying not to give him an inch—but it didn't matter. It was working. Lee could feel that much.

Beaumont didn't give it up without a fight. Of course he didn't. He got a little leverage now and then, pushed at Lee but never quite managed to actually shove him off. Because Lee had him, now. Held him there with a hand on Beaumont's chest, fingers dipping through the gap of Beaumont's half-unbuttoned shirt, and his thighs caging Beaumont's—and Beaumont's pants, shoved down like that, were trapping them anyway, so that Beaumont couldn't knee him again or kick him, could hardly move at all; couldn't do anything except be held there, tense and trembling, and let Lee touch him.

There didn't seem to be a single sound in the whole world except Beaumont's breath, the ragged hitching way he was gasping for it.

And then Beaumont moved against Lee, hard, and it wasn't to push him away. "Sheridan," Beaumont bit out, and it came out torn-up and breathless, and Lee gloried in it.

But even better than that was the way Beaumont's head fell back against the wall, and the way Beaumont's eyes were squeezed shut—the way Beaumont gritted his teeth, the way his hips stuttered against Lee's hand, and—

And Lee had wanted to square things between them, to bring an end to it. But they weren't going to be done after this at all, he thought dimly. He'd only managed to flip the score.

Which wasn't any good reason for his heart to be pounding so hard. But it was.

**two.**

Lee meant to apologize, that night with the buller.

That was why he'd been looking for Beaumont, at the pub. Right after it happened, he'd been on top of the world, smug and gratified. But once that glow had faded, once the shine had worn off a little, he'd been left with an uncomfortable feeling that he'd pushed things further than he should have—that he'd crossed a line, and crossed it hard, and couldn't take it back.

He wasn't used to feeling wrongfooted. He didn't like it. And if admitting to Beaumont that he hadn't quite meant for any of that to happen was going to make that feeling go away, then he'd do it.

Except when he found Beaumont, it was because Beaumont was in the back room with Elsa Craddock.

And all at once something blazed up in him, and all his good intentions crumbled to ash. A punch-up, that was just the thing. Because then Beaumont wouldn't be looking at Elsa Craddock anymore, but at Lee. Because then Lee would be able to get a hand on him, would be able to pin him down again, would be able to get some fresh satisfaction from him.

But they didn't get very far at all before the bullers showed up and they had to run for it.

It felt like the closest Lee could get to what he'd really wanted, to lay that buller out flat. He hadn't thought about it more than that, when it happened. He'd just meant to get away, and if Beaumont got away too because of it, well, that couldn't be helped.

But once he understood Beaumont had ended up on the hook for it, it wasn't as though he minded. It started to seem like just about the best he could've done, really—the nearest thing to a price that he could extract from Beaumont, for everything Lee hadn't gotten from him before the bullers arrived.

And he'd guessed Beaumont wouldn't tell the dean. That was how these things had worked back in Lakedale, too. No, Beaumont wouldn't tell the dean.

But he wouldn't forget about it, either. He wouldn't forget about it, and he'd want to get even with Lee for it somehow, and Lee shouldn't have been looking forward to finding out how.

It was everything Lee'd been angling for and hadn't gotten in the pub, to be facing Beaumont in his room: the two of them stripping their jackets off, and Beaumont's eyes fixed sharp on Lee, and no chance of any bullers coming in and cutting things short.

But then Beaumont turned away from him. Beaumont turned away from him, and the bells of Oxford were ringing, and Beaumont stopped there with his jacket bunched up in his hand, and Lee felt it all slipping away from him.

"Well," he prodded, "what are you waiting for?"

It never had taken much more than a word out of him to make Beaumont angry with him before. There was no reason it shouldn't work this time.

But Beaumont didn't bite. Because they might still get caught after all, if they made too much noise knocking each other around in here, and Beaumont didn't want to risk it.

Lee couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand it. He should've left, and he knew it, but he didn't move.

"Get out," Beaumont snapped at him again, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. As if he'd follow Beaumont's orders anyway, he thought, and he felt filled up with frustration, irritation. Desperation. Didn't Beaumont understand anything? Couldn't Beaumont see that there was no way Lee could go, not when he hadn't gotten even a fraction of what he'd come for?

No, he couldn't leave; and he resented Beaumont furiously, blisteringly, for trying to force him to—for trying to pretend that it was possible that he would.

And if Beaumont refused to knock him flat, well. Maybe there was still something else that would do the job.

So Lee stayed right where he was, and tipped his chin up a little, and said, "Make me."

Beaumont practically snarled at him. He threw his jacket down without looking to see where it landed, and closed the distance between them with a forceful stride, and grabbed Lee, fists wound so tight in Lee's shirt that the collar drew up hard at the nape of Lee's neck.

"Sheridan, by god," Beaumont said, low and furious.

And then his jaw clenched. He remembered, visibly, that he couldn't take a swing at Lee—that he'd only just finished insisting that they'd better not. And for a moment he was trapped like that: furious, but with no way to make it known, no way to make it _felt_ , except the heat of his glare aimed at Lee.

Lee sucked in a breath, heart pounding, and caught Beaumont by the wrists.

He couldn't say anything. Of course he couldn't. He could—he could only stand there, and squeeze his grip tight, as tight as it had been that night, and mutely hope that somehow Beaumont would understand—

Beaumont's gaze flickered. His eyes narrowed, and his face turned still. Still, and clear, and entirely unreadable.

And then he hauled Lee around by that grip on his shirt, and pushed him down onto the long low seat beneath the windows, and shoved a knee between his thighs.

Lee made a sound without meaning to, a breathless embarrassing sound; and Beaumont's stare went sharp, and one corner of his mouth began to tilt up just a little in a small cool smile.

"I suppose," he murmured, "there's more than one way to put you in your place, if you insist."

Lee swallowed, and thought too late, a prickle of apprehension sweeping him, that he hadn't—he'd only meant to push Beaumont to cross that line first this time, so it wouldn't be Lee again; so he wouldn't have to feel strange about it anymore. He hadn't been intending to put himself at Beaumont's mercy.

But that was where he was. Beaumont had taken him by surprise, moving so swiftly and smoothly, and he was at a disadvantage now: below, with Beaumont over him and holding him down, and Beaumont's knee where it was.

He tried to push himself up. Beaumont moved against him—shifted his grip, pressed a forearm across Lee's chest and pushed him back down, and his free hand was—

He wasn't even reaching for Lee's waist. He wasn't, Lee realized distantly, trying to—trying to _debag_ Lee at all. He wasn't going to bother with it. Because he'd be perfectly happy to force Lee to embarrass himself this way, if he could.

And the hell of it was, he could. It was already working.

Lee bit the inside of his cheek hard, pushed and struggled and thrashed under Beaumont. He almost got loose, for a second. And then Beaumont caught him and pressed him inexorably down again, laid out on the window seat like he was Beaumont's to do with as he pleased, and—and gripped him, and Lee had to lift a hand to his mouth and bite that instead, to keep from crying out.

"You did it," Beaumont was saying in his ear, low and savage. " _You_ did it, Sheridan. None of them know, but I do. Do you understand? You can't fool me, not now."

Lee squeezed his eyes shut, and bit down harder, and twisted his face away, as if he could hide from Beaumont that way. But of course he couldn't. Beaumont was right. Beaumont was right, and his hand felt broad and strong and hot where it was pressed against Lee, where Beaumont was gripping him, and he couldn't bear it.

"Beaumont," he heard himself say.

"Admit it," Beaumont murmured to him, and Beaumont's voice was sweet and soft and impossibly cold. "Admit it, damn you. It was you—"

 _It was, it was, it was_ , Lee didn't say. _I did it. I confess_ , because it was true but the last thing he wanted was to give Beaumont the satisfaction of hearing it.

He kept his eyes shut tight. He felt exposed, suddenly and terribly. Somehow it was all the worse for the fact that Beaumont hadn't pulled a single stitch of clothing from Lee, hadn't bared Lee at all—except in every way he had.

He kept his eyes shut, and he groaned against his hand where it was shoved into his mouth, breath hissing out desperately between his teeth. He _moved_ , helplessly, greedily, into the firm sure touch of Beaumont's hand. And Beaumont laughed a little above him, cool and distantly amused, and let him.

When it was over, Beaumont let go of him. Lee snuck a glance, lying there trying to catch his breath and failing; and Beaumont stayed there over him, poised, gazing coldly down, for only a moment before he pushed himself up and turned away.

"All right, that's just about enough for today," Beaumont said evenly.

Lee rubbed a hand across his face, and swallowed, and fumbled his way to his feet.

"Beaumont," he said.

Beaumont looked at him. "Get out," he said, crisp. "I won't tell you again, Sheridan."

And Lee bit his lip, and looked away—ducked down to snag his own jacket from the floor where he'd let it fall, and went.

It didn't make any sense.

He'd wanted that to happen. He'd wanted to push Beaumont, and he'd wanted Beaumont not to ignore him. He'd wanted Beaumont to cross that line: to admit that he'd do anything, anything at all, to have the better of Lee, the same way Lee had done with him. He'd wanted it, and he'd gotten it.

So it didn't make any sense that it felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. It didn't make any sense that he should stand outside Paul's closed door and feel unsteady on his feet—cold, and a little sick, and fiercely, unaccountably unhappy.

**three.**

Lee avoided Paul for a while after that.

It worked fine.

It worked fine, until it didn't. Because Lee had come to Oxford to run, sure—but he'd also come to Oxford to row. And if he was going to row for Cardinal, then he was going to do it with Beaumont.

The day it was finally time to head down to the boathouse, Lee hardly knew which way was up. He felt hot and cold all over. He felt like he might shake apart.

And then he got there. And Beaumont looked up when he came in, and met his eyes, and then looked away again, and not a single thing about Beaumont's face changed.

Lee should probably have been relieved.

But he stared at the side of Beaumont's head, Beaumont's clean strong profile; Beaumont, so utterly and thoroughly unmoved. And something deep in the pit of his stomach twisted itself up tight.

Lee couldn't remember much of that first day with the boat club, later. He couldn't remember what Beaumont might have told them all, or how anybody else had introduced themselves, or any of it.

Because it didn't stick, it couldn't, next to how eaten-up he was inside.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about last time, about Beaumont's room and what they'd done. The weight of it hadn't left him, no matter what he did, and he'd felt marked by it, a scarlet letter. He'd felt agonized, and uncertain, and occasionally wildly ashamed.

And it was like coals burning in him, dull and hot and red, thinking that Beaumont hadn't been touched by it. That Beaumont had just carried on, cool as you please, all the time Lee had been tying himself in knots over it, and hadn't given any of it—hadn't given _Lee_ —a second thought.

So when it was over, and everybody else had clapped each other on the back and gone out, Lee stayed where he was. And when Beaumont tried to pass him and go too, Lee caught him by the arm.

"Beaumont," he said sharply.

"Sheridan," Beaumont returned, very level.

That just made it worse. How calm he sounded, how steady. That just made it worse, and before Lee even really knew it, he was shoving Beaumont a handful of stumbling strides to press him up against the boathouse wall.

"Sheridan," Beaumont said again, quieter, a little sterner. And his face didn't change at all, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp on Lee's face, intent.

Lee held him there, and touched him.

He wasn't ready to go. Not right away. But that was all right, Lee decided. All the better if Lee could _make_ him ready, even if he didn't want to be. That Lee could move him after all, one way or another.

Beaumont went silent, after that. As if he'd decided even a sound was too much to surrender. He went silent, tense and still, and the only concession he made at all to what Lee was doing to him was that he couldn't seem to look away from Lee.

Lee called Beaumont's bluff every way he could think of. He took a half-step closer, so their knees bumped. He gripped Beaumont by the nape of the neck, fingers catching in his hair—and then he touched Beaumont's throat, and his shirtfront, his chest tight with quick breaths beneath it; his waist, his hip. Nothing Lee'd ever have thought to bother with the other times, but now he was deliberate about it, pointed. All Beaumont had to do, he thought, was tell him to stop. Tell him to stop, shout at him to. Shove his hands away, or scowl at him, or spit on him. Do something, anything, that meant it had gotten to him—that _Lee_ had gotten to him. And if he did, then Lee would let him go.

But Beaumont didn't do a thing. He just stood there, poised, a fine tremble working its way through him now and then, and his eyes fierce and hard and unreadable.

So Lee had to keep going. He had to, or else Beaumont won.

He didn't think about it, he just did it. Shoved his thigh between Beaumont's, and pressed into him, moved against him—and there, all right, he could feel it now, even without opening Beaumont's trousers. Beaumont was getting worked up, and it was because of Lee.

Lee—

Lee himself was already worked up plenty, he realized dimly, sucking in a breath, hips moving clumsily against Beaumont's tense hard thigh. And maybe that should have bothered him, but he discovered he didn't mind. Didn't mind it, and didn't mind Beaumont knowing about it, either. He was willing to admit to it. He was willing to admit to anything that might make even a shadow of an impression on Beaumont.

He moved against Beaumont some more, harder. Beaumont shuddered beneath it—and Lee might not even have known it except for the way he was pressed against Beaumont now, might not have been able to tell if he couldn't feel it, but he could.

And he was—he had to squeeze his eyes shut, then. It felt like there was no air left in the room, like he couldn't breathe; he pushed in closer even as he opened his mouth to gasp a little, and the wet curve of his lip brushed the hinge of Beaumont's jaw. Beaumont tensed against him, and then did move after all: gripped his shoulder, so hard Lee knew it would bruise.

It only went on like that another minute or so. Hard, and clumsy, and silent, except for the rasp of their breath.

When it was over, for a second Lee couldn't make himself move. He just stayed where he was, crowding Beaumont against that wall and pressed to him from hip to shoulder, mouth almost touching Beaumont's ear.

And he'd wanted to wring some kind of concession out of Beaumont, anything he could get. But suddenly he wasn't sure which of them might have conceded what: who had won, that time, if either of them had won at all.

**four.**

The night they burned Cardinal's boat, Beaumont wouldn't take Lee's hand.

It surprised him, distantly, to stand there after and feel so oddly—cold. He was right next to the fire. It just wasn't quite reaching him, somehow.

He didn't want to be there, he thought suddenly. He didn't want to be there, not anymore; so he turned and he walked off into the dark.

He didn't know which way he was going. He hadn't picked any direction in particular, except "away".

He should have known better. Shouldn't he? He should have known better. The way Beaumont had talked about him had gotten to him, that was all. He'd been foolish enough to think that it meant something, that Beaumont had—had given up on resenting him so much.

But that wasn't so.

Not that it mattered. _He_ still resented Beaumont just fine. He despised Beaumont, he loathed Beaumont. He _hated_ Beaumont, so fiercely and so desperately he probably wasn't ever going to be able to stop.

It was all that hatred that was choking him now. It was all that hatred that was filling up his throat, pinching his chest tight, making his eyes sting hot. That was what it was.

He stumbled on a little way further through the darkness, and discerned, though it was all a bit blurry, that he hadn't actually gone very far wrong. There was the shape of his hall, off ahead of him, and there—

There, crossing the grounds toward it at an uncharacteristically leaden pace, was Beaumont.

Lee was stopped short for an instant, all of him clenched up tight at once.

And then someone cried out, "Beaumont," unevenly, furiously, and he only realized afterward that it had been him.

Beaumont's head whipped around. He saw Lee coming, and had time enough to raise his hands, palm-out, defensive, before Lee barreled into him—gripped him tight, hands fisted in Beaumont's jacket, and shoved him backwards, and together they staggered into the lee of the nearest hall, sheltered from even the distant leaping light of the burning boat.

"Sheridan," Beaumont said warningly.

Lee pushed him, pushed him and then followed the push—couldn't stand to let Beaumont out of his grasp, not even for a second—until Beaumont was shoved up against the stone of the hall.

"Sheridan—" Beaumont said again, and pressed back against Lee's grip, caught Lee by the collar in turn.

Lee wanted to hit him. Lee wanted to talk to him. Lee didn't know what he wanted, and was stuck there shaking in the grasp of it—of everything he wasn't saying, everything he couldn't do.

He hated Beaumont so much, he thought. He hated Beaumont more than anything.

And then, right there in the dimness, heart pounding so hard in his chest he thought it might crack, he let his hands loosen in Beaumont's jacket, and he sank one jerking, clumsy inch at a time to his knees.

Beaumont sucked in a harsh, startled breath, and didn't move. His hands were still at Lee's collar, for a second; and then he let go, as Lee dropped further, and didn't seem to know what else to do with them except leave them hovering awkwardly either side of Lee's head.

It felt appropriate, in a funny way, for it to be like this: fumbling for Beaumont in the dark, dry-throated, just waiting to be kicked in the face for it.

But Beaumont didn't kick him.

Beaumont chose his friends carefully, fine; but he didn't do much else carefully. He never had, or he wouldn't be out all the time with Mrs. Craddock, in pubs and on river boats. So he wouldn't shake Lee's hand. All right. But he'd let Lee do this. Surely he'd let Lee do this.

Lee didn't have anything to apologize for. He didn't. People thought what they wanted; that wasn't his fault. If Beaumont hadn't been able to make anybody listen to him, hadn't been able to convince anybody of the truth about that night with the buller, well, that was his problem. And Lee didn't owe him anything.

But it felt like he did. And it shouldn't have been such a desperate relief, that Beaumont didn't jerk away when Lee drew his slacks down his hips; but it was.

It was clumsy, tentative. Lee had never done anything like this before, and hadn't figured he'd ever want to. He kept his eyes screwed shut, but it didn't help. His face was hot, and he didn't know what he was doing.

But he put his mouth on Beaumont anyway, abject and daring at the same time.

Beaumont was silent, over him. But his hands dug tight into Lee's hair—sharp, startling, too hard. And part of him seemed to like it well enough—

Beaumont's fists clenched tighter, and suddenly, no warning at all, he was dragging Lee off him, holding him away by that grip in his hair.

"Don't," Beaumont said, gritting it out. "Sheridan, stop. Don't—"

Lee couldn't help but look up at him then, already braced for Beaumont to take a swing at him.

But Beaumont was looking back at him, that was all. Something crossed Beaumont's face that Lee couldn't read.

"Don't," he said again, more quietly.

Lee bit the inside of his cheek. It didn't help. "But," he said, and it sounded hoarse from—from what he'd been doing with his throat, and thin, and he hated it.

How could he even say it? How could he ever explain? That he'd rather do it, by far, than not. That he'd rather carry on, tip the score between them deliberately all over again, than call it even and leave off when Beaumont said he could. Because that way—

That way there would still be something left. They'd still have to square themselves up, in the end, one way or another.

Beaumont's eyes changed. His mouth stopped pressing itself so flat.

"You really don't know when to quit, do you, Sheridan."

It wasn't a question, or at least it didn't sound like one.

"Oh, and you do," Lee replied anyway.

Beaumont huffed half a breath through his nose, and his mouth moved a little more; and for a second, he almost looked amused.

"No, I suppose I don't," he agreed.

And he looked down at Lee a moment longer, and his brows drew together just a bit. And then, quick, decisive, twice as gracefully as Lee had, he went to his knees too.

"Beaumont—"

"Shut up," Beaumont said.

They were on a level now, in the damp grass. And Beaumont was still angry with him, Lee could tell that much by the way he jerked at Lee's pants, the way he touched Lee. Harsh, too fast—so sharp and overwhelming it took a second for Lee to remember that he hadn't finished with Beaumont yet, and to get his hand around Beaumont again.

But that was all right. Lee didn't mind.

Beaumont wouldn't shake his hand. But at least he'd let Lee do this.

**five.**

It was satisfying, in a petty, mean way, to see what happened to Beaumont's face when Lee said it.

It was Beaumont's fault for pushing. It was Beaumont's fault for barging in like this, for demanding the truth—as if he'd want to hear it, Lee thought sourly, or would believe it if Lee told it to him. As if he'd understand, when Lee didn't even understand it himself.

He'd known, that was all. He'd known the moment he'd climbed down, heart in his throat, the way he'd figured out how to climb down to Beaumont's room, and had seen Elsa Craddock in there. If anybody found out—and judging by the ruckus outside Beaumont's closed door, somebody was about to—then that would be it. Beaumont would be sent down, and this time there wouldn't be any help for it.

And Lee had discovered, that breathless split-second he'd spent hanging off the windowsill, that that was intolerable. It wasn't going to happen; it _couldn't_.

He wanted to have thought about it. He wanted to have treated it as a score like any other—a truer one, deeper, but a score all the same. That he'd stolen something from Beaumont, letting him take the rap for hitting the buller, and at last maybe he could give it back, tit for tat, and make them even.

But the truth was he just couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand to think about it. Beaumont, gone. Gone and not ever coming back. _Paul_ gone, damn it.

He hadn't been able to bear it.

And now he was getting sent down, and Beaumont had come to ask him why, and there was no way he was telling Beaumont any of that.

His throat was tight, aching. His chest hurt. And he spun some yarn about him and Elsa Craddock, and yeah, that was the hot sweet sting of satisfaction, watching Beaumont believe it.

Beaumont didn't seem to like picturing Lee and Mrs. Craddock any better than—well. Any better than Lee had liked it, walking into the back of that pub and seeing them there.

"And did we laugh," Lee added, low, tacked onto the end.

Beaumont's mouth twisted. His jaw worked. And then he lifted a hand and set it to Lee's chest, and shoved.

"Not laughing now, are you, Sheridan?" he bit out, as Lee stumbled back and caught himself against the edge of his desk, awkward. And then he took a step forward, followed Lee, and shoved him again.

There was no one to stop him. Lee felt slow, clumsy, off-balance with surprise; and Scatters had ducked out when Beaumont first strode in past him, and had closed the door behind him.

Lee could still shout. Somebody would hear.

But he knew already that he wasn't going to.

For a minute, he thought maybe he had the wrong end of the stick. Maybe Beaumont just wanted to take a swing at him—knock him flat, at last—and that was all.

Because Beaumont just caught him by the jacket, fists twisting up the lapels of it, and wasn't touching him anywhere else, at first. "You're being sent down," he was saying, quietly vicious. "You know what that means, don't you? You're being sent down. They're kicking you out."

He shook Lee a little, punctuational. He was digging his teeth into his lip, and his face was white, set, furious and agonized.

"You're leaving," he said. "You're _leaving_ ," and his knuckles were jammed into Lee's chest now, pushing a dull hot ache under Lee's skin.

"Beaumont," Lee said.

"You're going back to America," Beaumont spat at him, "and I'll never have to think about you again," and then he pinned Lee back against the desk and did touch him after all.

Lee bit down on a sound he didn't want to make where Beaumont could hear him, and reached up to grip Beaumont's shoulder, the nape of his neck. "Yeah," he said instead, when he could—when it was safe to. "Yeah, of course. You'll be glad to be rid of me, won't you?"

"Yes," Beaumont agreed grimly. "I will."

He had Lee's pants open, now, and had put his hand in, and Lee couldn't quite remember what it was they were talking about, what he ought to say next.

"You'll—you'll—"

Beaumont did something with his thumb, savagely good, and twisted his wrist, and Lee shuddered in his grip and had to throw his head back and gasp.

"Don't you dare," Beaumont snapped, and then Beaumont took him by the jaw, the chin, with the other hand. "Look at me, Sheridan. Look at me, damn you," and Lee did it, unthinking, and then couldn't stop.

It was something about the way Beaumont was staring at him. Staring at him, watching him, even as he was busy furiously pulling Lee off. Lee felt suddenly, dazedly aware of the breath shuddering through him, that Beaumont could hear it, and how flushed his face must be.

But Beaumont didn't look as though he minded. He didn't—he didn't even look all that angry anymore, not really. His brow had drawn down, furrowing, and the muscles in his jaw were clenched up, and his eyes were bright. His grip on Lee wasn't punishing, either. Intent, maybe. Urgent.

He still hadn't taken his other hand off Lee's face.

And then all of a sudden Beaumont's gaze flickered a little. He drew a sharp breath, and moved, and then it was—their mouths touched.

Lee was poleaxed by it, stunned mindless.

Beaumont held him there and kissed him harder. And Lee felt himself open up for it, took it and took it and took it, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was close. _He_ was close; and the moment that dim understanding came to him, it was already too late. He was trembling, tensing, tipping over, right into Beaumont's hand.

Beaumont gasped a little against Lee's mouth, and pulled away. Lee had an instant's perfect clear impression of him, indelible: his eyes, gone strange and brilliant, and his mouth, how red it was; the way his throat moved, as he swallowed. The way he seemed to struggle, for a moment, to turn away—and then did, and strode out without a word, and was gone.

**and one.**

The night after they won the Boat Race, Lee couldn't sleep.

It had been hours, hours and hours, and he was still alight with it, giddy, full to overflowing. The boat club had been celebrating all evening, and Lee right in the middle of it. Lee and Beaumont— _Paul_. Paul, who had brought Lee the good news and taken him by the shoulders and laughed for joy. Who'd been right there with him in the boat as they raced, one seat behind, pulling in perfect time. Who'd grinned down at him after, bright, brilliant, and Lee had looked up into his eyes and felt dizzy, and not just because he was half upside down.

It had been like that all night. They'd stuck pretty close to each other—just naturally, everybody pushing them together and crowding around to congratulate them. And even when they hadn't been touching, hadn't been in arm's reach of each other, it hadn't mattered. Lee had felt him anyway.

It had been impossible not to, somehow. Lee'd felt prickled all over by it. Even when he hadn't been looking at Paul or facing him, had been talking to somebody else entirely, his face had been hot and his heart had pounded, and he'd been hopelessly, relentlessly aware that Paul was in the room too.

They'd stumbled away together after, leaning on each other and laughing, making their fumbling way back to their beds. And of course Paul had let go of him on the landing, had looked at him and smiled a little and squeezed his shoulder, said, "Good night, Sheridan," and then turned away.

Lee had watched him go. And then he'd realized he was doing it and bitten the inside of his cheek, hard, and made himself go on upstairs.

But now he was—he couldn't sleep.

He paced a little. It didn't help. He put out the lights and made himself sit down on the edge of his bed. He was going to take off his shoes, he told himself. He was going to take off his shoes and lie down, because no one would care if he fell asleep in his clothes when he'd won the Boat Race, and that would be that.

And then he bit his lip, and stood up, and went to his window.

He climbed down the wall with his heart in his throat. The way was so familiar to him, and yet it felt inescapably different, new and strange, to be doing it like this: when he wasn't furious with Paul in the least, or clenched up inside with dread.

Paul still had a light on. He was pacing a little, too, absently rolling up his shirtsleeves. And then he turned to pace back, and saw Lee just coming down to a level with his window. He went still, and wet his lips, and his face was—

It was a fine, mild evening; milder even than it had been the night Lee had needed to fetch Mrs. Craddock out of here. The windows were all already open.

Lee swallowed, and lowered himself gently down, and stepped in.

Paul looked at him, and then away, down, and didn't move, except to reach up and rub awkwardly at the nape of his neck. "I—Sheridan," he said.

It sounded measured, a little brisk. It sounded like he was about to say something else calm, and reasonable, and amiable.

It sounded like nothing Lee wanted from him at all.

"Paul," Lee said, very low.

And Paul's head came up, and his eyes were bright, his mouth parted; as if Lee could possibly resist an invitation like that.

It should have been harder to do. They'd never tried it this way, after all. On purpose, and neither of them half-sick with resentment—Lee had never felt shy before, but he guessed this must be what it was like, this strange tender feeling. That he wanted to be here, and that he had no other reason for it except that; that Paul must know it, must _see_ it, and that there was no way Lee could keep it from him.

But, as it turned out, it was easy enough. Lee as good as threw himself across the room, and Paul caught him, strong steady hands at his waist, which left Lee free to take Paul by the face, thumbs sweeping daringly close to either corner of his mouth.

"Lee," Paul said quietly.

And Lee kissed him.

Lee kissed him and kissed him, and abruptly found himself trying to do ten different things at once. Because he wanted Paul's shirt to come off, but also his own, and he still had his shoes on, his socks—he wished he'd climbed down here barefoot—and he couldn't stop kissing Paul long enough for any of it.

He'd have felt foolish for it, except that Paul was laughing into his mouth, because their hands kept bumping, tangling: because Paul was just as eager and impatient as he was, two-seat to his stroke and right there with him, in perfect time.


End file.
